


A Forgone Conclusion

by DevinBourdain



Series: From Clint Barton to SHIELD asset Hawkeye [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Barton's early years with SHIELD, Budapest, Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-04-29 22:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14482527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevinBourdain/pseuds/DevinBourdain
Summary: Things are finally starting to fall into place for Clint. He's got a handler he can trust and official certification within sight. A certain red head threatens to derail everything he's worked for when a mission goes sideways and his only hope is to work with an enemy that might be more than he originally thought. Phil might have to save him from himself and the Black Widow.





	1. Every Sunday's Getting More Bleak

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Avengers characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.  
> Reviews are always welcome and appreciated

**Seattle: SHIELD Northwestern Headquarters**

Watching through the window of the observation deck as the Quinjet made its way towards the tarmac, Phil Coulson stood in his impeccably tailored suit. It lacked its usual grace, resembling a wobbling giraffe on new legs as it reached its final resting position, having returned from the majestic wilderness of the BC Rocky Mountains. Every inch of scenery up there was a scene worthy of a postcard, that Coulson might enjoy if he ever got the chance to travel without any object to complete. Unfortunately, his own experience of the area was tainted with bad weather, aching muscles, and his training officer grading his survival techniques; he wasn't sorry he missed this particular adventure. He glanced at his watch, on time, before abandoning the observation window and making his way down the stairs for the door.

Crewe hadn't been particularly thrilled about taking Barton alone on his weeklong excursion to test the recruit's survival skills, but the hands on training was something their charge could benefit from. Since Coulson had been bogged down with reports regarding his main mission, it was an added benefit to get the young archer out of his hair, off base, and into some fresh air for a couple of days. Theoretical studies and mission plan reviews had proven too difficult for all involved, Barton showing more of an interest and aptitude to a more hands on approach. Phil chalked it up to Clint's lack of formal education and baptism by fire existence more so than any real intellectual shortcomings. Still, babysitter and classroom teacher weren't his forte to begin with; having an unruly pupil was just adding frustration for all.

"Do the shutdown sequence, your post flight checks and then store your gear," yelled Crewe stepping out the back hatch of the jet. He hefted his gear bag over his shoulder, looking a little worn from the experience. Leaving the archer to finish dealing with the jet, he sauntered over to Coulson, nodding in greeting.

Sensing the other man's unenthusiastic mood, Phil hesitantly asked, "How'd it go?" Crewe glared in response. "Well, at least you didn't leave him out there. You didn't leave him there did you?" Coulson glanced back towards the jet for any glimpse of the man in question to verify it was actually Barton that had flown back.

"No. Even if I tried, the kid's like some weird ninja, he'd find his way back. For the record, if the kid can't drive, I'm not the one teaching him."

"Pilot lessons not going well?"

"Oh he's picking it up, but like everything else, a rock has better self-preservation skills than him. A _rock_! I mean if you want someone for the next kamikaze mission, he's your guy, but the whole come back from the mission concept seems to be lost on him."

"He does seem to have a chip on his shoulder compounded by a fluctuation between trying to test the boundaries with superiors and proving himself worthy. I'll talk with him, again." It seemed to be a recurring conversation. Despite Phil's reassurances, the archer held fast to his belief that the second his value to the agency waned, his place would disappear.

"Wouldn't it be easier for everyone just to toss Barton's ass at the academy and let them straighten him out instead of forcing babysitting duty on us?" grumbled Crewe. Regular agent duties didn't fall into his wheelhouse, train definitely wasn't in his job description. Sometimes Fury had funny ideas on how to get things done.

"Special agents require special handling. Besides, they don't need Barton organizing a frat house." Coulson had been blessed with a vivid imagination and had come to some scary conclusions about what the archer would come up with if left to his own devices.

"I sent him to go study for tomorrow, but I'm sure he's made origami animals out of his textbook by now." Alternative uses for SHIELD sanctioned learning materials would have been Damian's first move if someone had forced him to sit in a classroom and learn all the things he's picked up first hand too. He suspected his training had been a little more thorough and a little less conventional that even Barton's. He also suspected that this exercise in training was also a test to how Coulson adapted to the new role.

Phil clammed down on the small amused chuckle that threatened to break his hard outer shell. "What's your informal assessment of his potential? Others seem to think we're wasting our time; even Fury is indifferent to his future as a Specialist."

"The Director's indifferent to everyone until he's not. As long as he's not actively trying to terminate you, he probably sees potential. As for Barton, he got his GED, is practically working on University level courses, almost made up everything he would have learned at the Academy, had he gone and can work within and understand protocols. Whether he _chooses_ to apply protocols and respect them, is another thing entirely." Crewe gave a half-hearted shrug. "I can only throw him to the mat so many times; it's up to him the make the corrections. I think the only thing that's going to instil those survival lessons is real life experience, which he has more of than most of our senior agents. In short, camping's not going to do it anymore, which is good cause I hate camping."

"Alright, I'll see about bringing him on to the next mission after his evaluations."

"Who'd you'd find that was willing to trek it out here to evaluate Barton? He ran off the last three instructors you used."

"I found someone special that's used to dealing with unique people." Coulson pulled open the door to the facility allowing Crewe to juggle his things through the door. "We have a briefing today regarding _other_ matters. Can you be ready in two hours?"

Crewe glanced at his watch and gave a small nod of consent. "See you at sixteen hundred hours."

Phil returned his curt nod before taking the opposite hall as Crewe. He'd been responsible for missions and teams before, but never the entire training of one individual. Barton's success or failure was riding on his shoulders, and damn it, he was going to make sure any agent he took into the field was ready for that responsibility. He had been the one to make the call to recruit the young man, a boy really. It was a decision that SHIELD seemed to take advantage of, pressing Clint into action in one of its army regiments, circumventing any actual academy training in favour of his perfect aim and suitableness as a sniper. While Barton had proved he could roll with the big dogs, it hadn't exactly worked out to anyone's satisfaction. In fact, Clint had been a gut feeling away from getting a bullet in the head. Phil had planned to rectify that situation, and Fury was all too happy to dump it all in Coulson's lap.

He swung by the cafeteria grabbing a sandwich and bottle of water, while pocketing a package of doughnuts for himself. Opting to take the long way to the dorm section after stopping by his office to retrieve his briefing packet, he figured Barton had enough time to find his way back to his room. Gently he knocked at the door, only to find it hadn't been securely closed to begin with. It moved open a crack, offering a tiny sliver of view into the room.

"Yeah?" called Barton, pulling the door fully open before flopping back on his bunk.

Phil glanced around the small and sparsely filled room before stepping inside. The furniture was all SHIELD issued and standard dorm setup. A couple of books were piled haphazardly on the desk that seemed to be used more for eating than any kind of real studying based on the pile of paper plates stacked in the corner. The books themselves were probably the only thing that belonged to Barton himself besides his clothes which had the misfortune of also mostly being SHIELD issued. One of the larger actual textbooks was wedged in the window, keeping the glass up and allowing a soft breeze to freshen the room.

"That book actually has other uses," offered Coulson.

Clint casually glanced towards the window. "But that's the one I like the most."

"If you don't pass tomorrow, you'll be put on stand down which means none of the missions that you love so much," pressed Phil.

"You mean the busy work that anyone can do, that you call missions so your recruits feel special?" corrected the archer, with a cock sure grin. He hadn't made it a secret that while Coulson saw the value in doing things properly, covering the basics before moving on, Barton saw it as a giant step down, hovering in the territory of punishment.

"Those are the ones." He tossed the sandwich and bottle of water at the young man, who caught them without trouble. "I've brought in a special evaluator for you, who will see you after you finish your written. Please try not to embarrass yourself. And short of that lofty goal, try not to make me regret this."

The promise of a new victim perked Clint up. "Someone special? Who? Agent Johnson didn't like being shown up?" Clint threw in with a cocksure smirk. It wasn't that he was trying to make his evaluator's lives miserable, well okay, he was, but when people made it so simple it was hard to bite down on the urge to go along with it. Besides, if he bit first, it hurt less when they bit back. Not to mention the fact that some of them were asking for it in a major way.

Coulson rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Your ability to run metaphorical circles around a weapons evaluator doesn't mean you should."

"He told me to shove the Robin Hood shtick and use a real weapon," protested Clint, his voice rising slightly. "I simply showed him how good that hunk of junk worked." He didn't bother to hide his triumphant smile. Coulson had allowed some extra wiggle room for his penchant for non-conventional weapons based on his skill, but that courtesy didn't seem to resonate from anyone else. Barton's whole life people seemed to take one look and write him off, see his many failings and inability to measure up. Any chance to smash the doubt was embraced with both hands.

Phil shook his head. "For someone with exceptional eyesight, you seem unable to see what's in front of your face." Training Barton was an uphill battle, not from any lack of skill or physical impediment from the work but a complete lack of trust on the young man's part. Phil couldn't really blame him, the world proving time and again that trust is what let pain and suffering into one's life, but he was at a loss to find ways to prove that he could be trusted by the archer. He parted with, "Make sure you're on time tomorrow and prepared, please. Study. I promise you won't be disappointed with that comes next," leaving Clint alone in his room.

Clint sighed heavily as the door clicked shut. He glanced back at the book wedged in the window for a brief moment before choosing the sandwich over studying. It didn't matter how well he did on the written, it meant nothing without an official sign off from his final evaluators. While he figured Coulson would give it to him, if just to get him out of the agent's hair, that left him three short. Crewe was a crap shoot, always watching and mentally cataloguing everything the archer did. Barton respected the man's style, but realistically Clint wasn't a team player or even a rule follower. Coulson was the epitome of perfect agent, in fact if cloning technology became available, Clint was certain Fury would disband SHIELD in favour of an army of Coulsons. Crewe, on the other hand, seemed less conformed, operating on the fringes of SHIELD and rules. Out of everyone, Crewe seemed like he had a back-story Barton could probably relate to, if he could ever get anything other than mild indifference out of the man.

Fury would go along with the majority, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility to kibosh the whole thing. Clint secretly hoped saving the man's life might sway him into his corner, but the Director was practical. A useless weapon wasn't worth keeping around eating up valuable resources that could be spent on people that enjoyed saluting and blindly walking into bullets because they were told to. The last signature would belong to whoever Coulson had convinced to show up tomorrow and based on those that came before, probably had already decided against the archer before ever setting foot on the base. No matter what he did, that was already one strike against him and the first step to SHIELD throwing him out on his ass, which meant that he was presently on borrowed time; no point in wasting it burying his nose in a book.

* * *

Coulson shifted from foot to foot as he watched the flight crew escort their guest inside. Among intelligence organizations, SHIELD was the stuff of legends, so it was only expected that its membership included some of the greats. He had had the honor of meeting some of those individuals, however there was still a thrill attached to meeting a giant of his organization. At times, despite the stress, being Fury's right hand man had advantages.

"Agent Carter, I hope your flight was pleasant," he greeted, extending his hand to take her briefcase for her.

"Please, Phil, I'm practically retired; Peggy will be fine."

She fell into step beside him, saying nothing of the boyish grin that went from ear to ear. "Yes, ma'am." He had promised Nick to keep his fan-boying to a minimum, and in most cases he succeeded, but never in the honoured presence of Peggy Carter, a woman worthy of praise on her own right who had once stood side by side with the greatest hero of them all. Phil's enthusiasm made up for the lack of interest the other agents and recruits in the hall; the youth of today no longer enchanted by the pillars and founders of their great organization.

"So, tell me more about your candidate. Nick seemed very interested in my opinion of him."

"Clint Barton: already completed a year of actual field experience within a military division. That played out rather... interestingly," summarized Phil.

Peggy smiled fondly. "It's the interesting ones that are usually worthwhile." Her own personal recruitment list over the decades was filled with _interesting_ candidates that her peers had sloughed off as unworthy. It was always the special ones that made up the heart of SHIELD, kept it from becoming a cold and calculating war machine. Steve might not have been there to see it, but Peggy had personally vowed to make sure the home team kept people around to remind everyone of the virtues they should aspire too, even if there were situations that required the dark cloaked hand of mendaciousness to see results.

"That's what I'm hoping." He passed over a copy of Barton's history with SHIELD, a far thicker file than any other recruit. "Far from a glamorous childhood with a string of questionable adolescent choices..."

"That's putting it mildly," injected Peggy as she flipped through the papers.

"Regrettable career choices aside, he has skills and a natural instinct that I think would be of value to this organization."

She smiled. "Well, we'll just have to see how he fairs when I put him through his paces." Her days of being called upon for actual fieldwork had diminished long ago, stolen by age rather than nerve. It left her to fade into the background like the old relics in which SHIELD had been founded, but every once in awhile there was need for the wisdom and experience of 'old' things. It was enough to keep her from pulling the trigger on retirement. The days of playing hero and guardian with Howard had drawn to a close; the torch needed to be passed down. Few were so lucky to pick the future representatives of their dream.

Peggy bid Phil goodnight and retired to her assigned quarters to study the Clint Barton manual that had been complied so far. Tomorrow was going to bring many interesting things.


	2. A Fresh Poison Each Week

   
---  
   
   
  
**  
Romania: Location, Classified**

The cargo plane's engines roared in the background, a constant soundtrack to travel that Phil had long become immune to. It wasn't his favorite method of travel; the back of cargo planes were often too loud and too cold in comparison to normal commercial flights. The comparison was worse between his current surroundings and the cushy comfort of private travel on the newly created Quinjets, however the cargo plane was the first available transport and Coulson's life wasn't focused on comfort. If it was, he would have followed his mother's advice and chosen a more 'small town' profession instead of his supposed 'traveling businessman' career or at the very least gone into teaching like his step-father. His father had been a mechanic, a simple but honest living that provided them with a kitchen full of food, a roof over their heads and a piece of land with enough room to hold the attention and imagination of a growing boy. In the end, the picturesque slice of Americana had proved no more safer than his current profession; monsters really could appear anywhere.

"There's something I wanted to run by you," shouted Crewe over the noise as he crossed the cargo hold to sit next to Coulson. He pulled the harness over his shoulders snapping the buckle into place. "I was doing some digging on Barton."

The nonchalant way Crewe passed off the investigation one of Phil's assets sent a wave of unease through him. Fury had left Barton mostly up to his discretion, but the Director always had another angle and his displeasure at Phil for dragging his target home like a stray dog hadn't gone unnoticed. He could only hope Barton passed his evaluation so neither of them would have to find out what that angle was. "You're investigating Barton?"

"I am."

"Fury has you doing it?"

"He does," stated Crewe, a cold hard fact devoid of emotion.

"We're supposed to be a team. That doesn't seem very team like," tried Phil, knowing it was a half-hearted complaint at best. Damian's skill came from the fact that he could forgo personal attachments and work independently; Fury's perfect little killer.

A disingenuous smile played at his lips. "I'm not a team player. In fact, I was specifically employed because I'm not a team player. I could put a bullet in your head while looking you in the eyes Coulson, and afterwards, I'd walk away with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I'm a finger collection away from being a sociopath, so yes, Fury asked me to keep an eye on things. I work _for_ Fury, doing what needs to be done, so people like you can stand there and quote Captain America and talk about lines that shouldn't be crossed because you won't have to. If that makes the two of you uncomfortable that's too bad."

"That's a little cold. What did you find?"

"A birth certificate."

"That's not unusual and SHIELD already has one on record for Barton."

"I know. But this one puts Barton at two years older than what he claims to be. He's not stupid, despite his best efforts to convince everyone he is, so it's not like he shouldn't know how old he is. He's the age of majority so there's no point there. Thing is, the one SHIELD has is the copy from his school registration for kindergarten and that's the one that makes him younger. It's also the one that's on record at every point after that. Hell, the police report from his parent's death has him saying he's six years old. Odd thing to lie about, and incredibly difficult for a six year old to falsify."

It was something that piqued Phil's interest. Barton had an impressive array of fake passports and other documents from his mercenary days, and while the Barton family had a lot of discretions to hide, their youngest's birth certificate shouldn't have warranted. "I'll look into it further."

"That's kind of my job..." started Crewe.

" _I_ said _I'll_ look into it further, thank you Agent Crewe," snapped Phil, Crewe raising his hands in surrender.

* * *

From plane touchdown to the crime scene took no more than twenty minutes with police escort. The pair were greeted by an overly enthusiastic agent who was so new and so green, they were practically neon. "Good evening gentlemen, I hope your flight was pleasant." It was a bubbly greeting that was more appropriate for a base inspection than actual field work. "My name's Agent Caroline Ray and I was posted at the door to wait for your arrival."

Coulson smiled which had appeared as a polite greeting began to vanish as they stood there inquisitively staring at each other. Phil hopped he had never actually behaved like an untrained puppy during his first years with SHIELD. "Lead the way agent," he huffed when she showed no sign of taking the initiative herself.

"Oh right," she stammered, looking slightly embarrassed as she scrambled to lead them up the steps of the large manor house. The bricks were old but holding up, a testament to the secrets within that Coulson was now going to have to try and extract.

The crime scene analysts were out in full force, documenting every square inch of the gruesome display as the trio entered. Phil had seen a lot in his day, the squeamish feeling at the sight of blood long being driven from him, but this was looking like overkill. "Agent Miles," called Ray to a man directing the scene. "Agents Couslon and Crewe from HQ, sir."

The man looked up and waved the new arrivals over. "Dismissed Agent Ray." Phil sauntered over while Crewe went in the opposite direction towards the bodies splayed on the floor and around the dining room table.

Coulson offered his hand. "Agent Miles. What can you tell me?"

Miles ran a hand over his tired face. "I've seen a lot of things in my day, but nothing like this blood bath."

Phil glanced around the room, cataloguing the carnage without focusing on the morbid details just yet. "A situation that got out of control?" The feeling that he was chasing another dead end was starting to well in his gut. The Black Widow was stealthier than this. Her kills were precise and with purpose, but this looked like a free-for-all.

"We don't have all the evidence in yet but what we do know for sure is that these were the heads of a trafficking ring that the Russians were trying to negotiate with. An informant put the Black Widow arriving in town the same time as Bagrov, one of the Red Room's agents who was sent here to negotiate."

"What were they trafficking in?" asked Coulson. For all Phil's research, the Black Widow had started her career with mass murders, graduating to precise assassinations in the last few years. Her work was hard to detect by virtue of skill and the secrets she had to have amassed was something any intelligence agency would envy. To think she would have botched and intel gathering mission here so badly would be disappointing, which meant there was another facet to his mark.

Miles opened his mouth but Crewe cut him off. "Young girls," he called out from where he was crouched next to one of the bodies. Miles looked over at Crewe, the question written all over his face, but Crewe just shrugged.

"I want copies of everything you collect and all reports," stated Phil. "Excuse me." He moved to stand next to Damian.

"This is... this is art, Coulson," said Crewe with awe in his voice. The long mahogany dining table was still set, candles flickering as they flirted with the end of their wicks. The china was pristine white with gold trim and the splattering of crimson blood that had sprayed from the many victims slouched in their hand carved dining chairs or prone on the dark hardwood floors running through the room. The haunting stares of the ancient paintings lining the walls refused to share their secrets of what had happened earlier that evening.

Phil glanced around the room again. Someone defiantly enjoyed their work when they went about killing the seven men and three women in this room; none of which looked like they were expecting an all out war, rather a night at the opera. He could only imagine what the rest of the rooms looked like; the final body total was up to fifty-three when the plane arrived. "I wouldn't consider death on this magnitude art."

"I didn't say I agreed with the medium, but it takes a certain grace and planning to pull off something like this."

"And exactly what did they pull off?"

"These people, the ones in this room, that's who they came to meet. Everyone else was collateral damage contributing to the message they wanted to send whoever was missing from this party. These people were killed slowly and with purpose. The ones in the hall on the way up here were quick and messy. They either got in the way or needed to be disposed of after the fact."

"Our intel says the Black Widow is on loan to a group of gun runners. How does that require young girls and a room of socialites that have no discernible connection to weapons trade that SHIELD has been able to dig up?" Phil never liked holes in his information. The Black Widow and been accredited with numerous assassinations, disappearing without a trace after each. The movement of several shipments of stolen next gen weapons from Stark Industries was the first time they could actually catch glimpses of the target and hopefully catch up to her. This bloodbath was a wrench in what had seemingly been becoming a clearer picture.

"This had nothing to do with weapons, this was a recruitment job and they didn't deliver the goods." Crewe waved his hand over the array of bodies. Moving to the head of the table he pointed to an older woman, ivory dress turning pink as the puddle of blood beneath her continued to soak into the fabric. "Mara Csaszar, pillar of high society, inherited millions of the family fortune and made her own wealth through real-estate and a couple of diamond mines. On paper she's a fine upstanding citizen beyond approach, but her husband isn't so much on the up and up."

Coulson pulled out his notepad and flipped through the pages in search of the briefing notes he copied over about the victims that had been identified before the plan had left Seattle. "She doesn't have a husband since being widowed fifteen years ago."

Damian smiled as though he had been handed a trophy. "I didn't kill him. When I kill people you know that they're dead. When I fake their deaths, the world thinks that they're dead."

Phil could think of many reasons but he asked anyways. "And why would her husband need to fake his death?" Crewe's list of pre-SHEILD credits were impressive and many and none of the man's claims really surprised him anymore.

"Even being accused of human trafficking will put a dent in your social calendar. If he's dead, she can use her name and businesses as a front and he can continue facilitating the illegal business that actually built the family fortune. Clearly the Red Room was getting recruits from Csaszar who failed to deliver. That's good for us."

"Means we still have the weapons hand off to apprehend the Black Widow." It was the only slightly good news he had since learning that the Black Widow had struck again. Coulson hated playing catch up to the bad guys.

"That and we can double down. The Red Room is going to be looking for another trafficker. SHIELD have any we can lean on to go after that kind of a deal?"

Coulson smiled. "I'm sure we have someone we can force to work for us."


	3. We Were Born Sick,' You Heard Them Say It

**SHIELD Northwestern Headquarters**

Coulson loosened his tie as the cool breeze from the air conditioning greeted him at the door. He wasn't sure if Romania had been a win or not, but his resolve to close the Black Widow file wasn't wavering. Walking through the halls, he was filled with apprehension as he neared the office. He hadn't received any emergency calls while he was gone, so maybe no news was good in this case and Barton had, at the very least, _behaved_. Watching the archer, who was probably more capable than most of the agents on the whole base pretend that he wasn't, go to great lengths to convince them he wasn't, was the greatest test of Phil's patience. If anyone was going to shatter his well forged calm exterior, it was going to be a circus punk from Iowa.

"You're back." Peggy smiled brightly from behind the desk. She radiated a confidence and proficiency as though the whole world had been crafted to make her shine. "I hope you don't mind, I borrowed an office to write my report," she added, placing her pen beside the stack of papers. The delicate script adorning the pages, placed there by her steady hand, might as well have been stone carvings created to stand the test of time with the weight her pen stroked carried.

Coulson eyed the paperwork suspiciously. "It's no problem at all, but you could have gotten someone to give you a temporary user ID to type it on the computer." He was jet lagged, flopping down on the couch beside the desk. He might as well get comfortable as he prepared to defend Barton's place within the agency. It had become such a common occurrence, that it was second nature now; if only they could see what he saw.

"Old habits die hard; I'm more of a typewriter woman and in the absence of that, there's nothing like the feel of pen against paper."

"So do I want to know?" he asked, preparing for the worst. Talent, which Barton had in spades, could only get the kid so far, it was the rest of it that was proving difficult.

Carter turned serious, concentration lines marring her features. "Why are you so invested such a peccant individual?"

"Peccant?" Of all the adjectives Coulson would use to describe Barton, and there were many, that wasn't one he would have associated with the archer; at least not after getting to know him.

"Fury seems to think so. And I quote 'Clint Barton is going to be nothing but trouble... but might be worth it.'"

Phil thought long and hard about that night in the alley; a broken plea from an even more broken individual that had somehow changed his mission adjective. "I don't know. Maybe I look back a decade and but for the grace of god and couple of different choices, that could have been me if not for Nick and then SHIELD.

"You would have killed people for money?" she asked with intrigue, but no judgement.

Coulson shrugged. "I don't know that I would have been so magnanimous in the choices I would have made while doing it. Most of us in his situation wouldn't have been as discriminate as he. Back against the wall, life hanging by a string and he still tried to do right by people, to spare the innocent and maintain loyalty to others, probably the least deserving people possible."

He tried not to fidget as he waited for Carter to finally deliver her verdict. Phil knew his own recommendation was in favor of the archer and through less than honest means, had learned the outcome of Crewe's review; neither a blow to Barton's chances but not a shining endorsement either, more of a neutral 'whatever you feel is best.' He'd been preparing to plead his case to Fury for months while secretly hoping these reviews would make it unnecessary. The part that tore him up the most, the thing that woke him in the middle of the night ever since he let Clint into his life as more than a faceless target, was what was going to befall the kid if SHIELD, like everyone else before, turned its back on the archer. Some birds weren't meant to be caged.

"You can relax, Phil. I'm recommending Barton for official agent status. I think he would be an invaluable asset. He's never met a rule he hasn't broken, but his skill with a bow more than makes up for that. And he has heart; that trumps not being a team player in my books. I believe he would be an asset on an independent team and Director Fury agrees."

Coulson could feel the tension drain out of his body. It took a moment for his mouth to form the thoughts running through his head. He had been gearing up for a fight for a while and now that it wasn't going to happen, he was lost at sea. "Thank you very much, for both your time and your evaluation."

She scribbled her signature on the bottom of her report before slipping it into its crisp folder and placing it in her briefcase. "No need to thank me, Barton did all the work." Peggy shook Phil's hand as she made her way to the door. "I suspect I'll hear great things about him in the future. Until you get all the wrinkles ironed out, I wish you luck with him. Oh and I would strongly recommend getting Research and Development to make a bow the Director will let Barton take out in the field."

"Yeah," sighed Coulson under his breath. He'd been so focused on seeing the young archer earn official status that he'd been blocking out the part where Nick would have Coulson continue to act as handler. The man could hold a grudge and if he couldn't fast track Phil to moving up the ladder to become the next Assistant Director, then he's probably do everything in his power to make Phil wish he had taken the offer.

The good news was enough to invigorate Phil to making it to his office. Check a few messages, file his notes and then crawl into bed; tomorrow was going to demand a good night's sleep. He pushed open his office door, preparing to spend the next few hours drowning in coffee until he passed out at his desk despite his lofty goals of sleep, his weary hand finding the door heavier than it should be.

The fact that the light was on should have been his first clue, but he was surprised to find Barton sitting in his chair, feet up on the desk with a triumphant smile on his face.

"The point to having an office, is that others have to knock to get in," lectured Coulson with mock irritation.

Clint rolled his eyes. "I didn't touch your locked drawers or those powder donuts you hoard in here."

Phil tossed his jacket over the back of the visitor's chair. "The fact that you know about either is a safety breach in and of itself." He couldn't bring himself to be angry at the revelation; there was a reason it took as long as it did to hunt the elusive Hawkeye down. Not to mention, what kind of spy would he have been training if his donut fixation managed to slip past Barton's watchful eye.

"Did you hear the news?" Barton asked, changing the topic. There was a hint of pride in his voice, like a child asking to display their artwork on the refrigerator; it was a refreshing change. He flashed his newly acquired SHIELD badge for Phil to see. "Look, shiny."

Phil flashed a weary smile as he grabbed the toe of Clint's boot and pushed the boy's feet off of his desk. Pointing his thumb over his shoulder he signaled the young man to get out of his chair. Without protest, Clint moved, allowing Phil to flop down. "Congratulations Barton." It was a hard earned victory for both of them, but like most things, Coulson had a feeling it was just one battle in a long war.

Clint sprawled out on Phil's couch, the picture of casual. "So when are we going to get down to the real shadow government agency type missions instead of those bullshit milk runs?" There was an underlying eagerness to his picture of casual indifference.

Coulson could feel a headache starting behind his eyes. He'd just endured an irritatingly long plane ride in conjunction with a case that seemed never ending, he didn't want to think about trying to corral Barton on a major mission just yet. He needed a coffee first, maybe a pack of those donuts in his drawer. "That bullshit, as you so eloquently put it, is what's going to save your life one day."

"Uh-huh." Clint understood the need to practice, his whole purpose was based on many long years of practice in the circus, but there were just some things that couldn't be practiced. There was no substitute for that moment when everything was on the line, bullets flying, and you had a split second to make a decision that would not only impact the mission and your life, but the lives of others.

He knew the archer had earned it, and would probably be of value, but part of him still had reservations about putting the kid in the field on something like this. Sprawled out on the couch trying to look like he wasn't completely enamoured with his badge, Clint looked impossibly young, like the biggest concern he should have was what college he should apply to, not worrying about clandestine operations. It was a sobering thought to realize he was that young. "Tomorrow morning, 0900 hours you'll be read in on the operation." Barton's smile was infectious. "Don't be late," warned Coulson as he watched his agent bounce towards the door.

Clint paused, fingers wrapping around the door frame. With a playful smile he stated, "I feel I should mention that I don't wear suits."

Phil clamped down on his irritated smile to deliver his best serious agent face. "This is Dolche; you don't have the security clearance to pull this off. Now get out of here."

* * *

The small triumphant was going to Clint's head. For the first time he was going to let himself enjoy it and not worry about the impending doom that always reared its ugly head to stomp out his happiness. Too wired to think about sleep, he headed to the cafeteria to see if he could swipe any leftover desserts; might as well put a cherry on the day. He was eyeing the dessert case when he heard familiar voices drifting through the otherwise empty cafeteria.

"Just do me a solid," pleaded Brody from across the table.

"No," answered Crewe, cramming a spoonful of fruit salad in his mouth. Neither glanced over as Clint set his tray down beside Brody and took a seat. The cafeteria was quiet except for the two men engaged in friendly argument. Both looked like they just crawled off a transport from something that was decidedly more exciting than hanging around base all day.

"You didn't even look at it," protested Rylan, pushing the manila mission folder closer as though proximity would change Damian's mind.

Crewe reluctantly pulled the folder closer and flipped through it at record speed, the pictures and words blurring together in incomprehensible mash of color in more of a show than any actual fact gathering. He tossed it back on the table with disinterest. "Nope."

Brody leaned over conspiratorially. "Geez Barton, you think you could do us all a favour and pull that stick out of his ass?"

Damian glanced up from his plate, still looking less than thrilled at his meal companion. "But then I'd have to stand up, and I'm eating."

The statement hung in the air before Barton cleared his throat, asking, "What brings you here Brody?" He'd seen Rylan mostly in passing over the last few months, the agent never being officially stationed in Seattle, but hopping between bases, busy with the missions Clint coveted. It's what he had first envisioned his SHIELD career to be while he was lying in a hospital bed recovering from Coulson's bullet; that was before phrases like 'get your GED' and 'study the academy's materials in regards to operations' started getting thrown around.

"Shameless begging," mumbled Crewe into his late dinner before Brody could answer.

"Had to make a stopover on my way back from... well that's classified, and I figured what better place than Seattle, see some friends..."

Crewe snorted loudly but didn't comment. Brody paused briefly at the passive aggressive noise but continued, "and since rumour on the street says you passed your qualifications to be an official agent, figured I'd come congratulate you. Now you get to go out on missions, _officially_. We both know you could cut it." He gave the archer a firm clap on the back, causing him to choke. "We should go out and celebrate tonight. I know a place where we can get a few drinks, have a little fun, you in Barton?"

Clint mentally went through his schedule. His day was free and clear, since Coulson hadn't anticipated being back today. The only thing pressing was his first official briefing for whatever task Crewe and Coulson had been working on for the last few months. The meeting demanded a good night sleep at a particularly early hour, but it had been ages since he's been able to go and blow off steam in a manner that didn't involve excessive range time. "Yeah, why not?"

Brody's face lit up. "Perfect."

"Now?" asked Crewe looking doubtful.

"Who said you're invited?" countered Rylan.

"He has an important meeting tomorrow," said Crewe, pointing his fork at Barton, "and I'd rather keep him from landing in jail in the first place than bailing him out which inevitably happens when you plan and night out."

Brody raised his hands in surrender. "One time. And who appointed you his babysitter?"

"Twice. And Coulson."

"Okay, twice, but the second time wasn't my fault."

"Everything's always your fault."

Brody tossed his crumpled napkin down on his empty tray. "Congratulations Barton. Now that you've made it, try and get away from this guy." He gave Crewe a snarky smile as he grabbed his discarded file to leave the cafeteria. "Meet me in the garage in twenty minutes. Prove to mommy here that you're a big boy now."


	4. I was Born Sick, But I love it

**Redrum Bar, Seattle**

The lights were as dim as the music was loud; just enough to alert the senses and derive a small amount of pleasure from their presence. The bar had been a common haunt for those stationed at the Seattle base, offering an atmosphere frequented by people on the wrong side of the law and thus prepared to ask no questions about any other patrons. The mismatched furniture spoke of bar fights through the decades and the floor had a permanent sticky film coating it but the drinks were cold and the food oddly delicious.

Brody place his armful of mugs of beer on the table with a clink before sliding them across to Barton and Crewe. Damian eyed the glass distrustfully, while Clint wrapped his fingers around the handle, pulling it close; the frost on the side already beginning to bead with moisture.

"The bartender certainly is… plucky." Brody looked back wistfully at the brunette wiping down the counter, before kicking his chair out and flopping down.

Crewe smiled. "She turned you down, huh?" Brody had definitely been disappointed when he showed up at the garage, but Barton had come too far for Crewe to let Brody derail things at the last minute in ways that only Brody could. He trusted Barton but didn't expect the kid to be ready to deal with the likes of Rylan on his own yet.

Rylan shrugged, pulling a big swig off his glass. "Faster than a Soviet drone in US airspace." Changing direction he raised his glass as he declared, "Here's to Barton, the unruly shit with impeccable aim and successfully challenging qualifications. At this rate, assuming you can survive the field, you'll be director before Fury knows what hit him."

Clint snorted before taking a long drink himself. His brief stint at school pre circus never had any of his _achievements_ adorning the fridge or parents showering him with accolades, and in later years survival was its own reward, never requiring a pat on the back. He didn't understand what Coulson's thrill with his scholastic achievements was; it was just another requirement to his survival if he wanted to stay with SHIELD, which he unwilling had to admit, he wanted. None of them could deny that Barton was behind the eight ball in his scholastic achievements making it impossible to actually put him in class in the beginning. There was no delusion that should he fail, he'd be back on the streets at best and with a bullet in his head at worst. Hell, it wasn't as if he was putting a lot of effort into his studies; his reading and writing a little lacking, but the information seemed to stick without effort. Here was Brody, making a big deal out of nothing more than surviving. It wasn't like he was particularly smart or anything and compared to his peers, his extensive gap in formal education had to have him at a disadvantage.

Brody prattled on, "Seriously, you're going to make all of us over educated diehards look bad."

"Yeah, I bet all the top agents are circus folk," mocked the archer. He was proud that he's been gifted his badge but he didn't need to be patronized with the 'good boy' praise and a pat on the head like a dog; it was just as distasteful as the whispered criticisms about his shortcomings from his peers.

"You're an asshole," scolded Crewe as he slid his beer back towards Brody. "Here, have another."

Brody grabbed the offered glass. "You say that like it's a bad thing and it's a compliment, I'm complimenting him. Don't get your panties in a twist. You pushed through a GED in a year with what? A grade six start and you made up for two years of Academy bullshit. Guess there's no substitution for hands on killing experience in your teens. Who cares if you started spying 101 with picture books, it's the practical portion that's going to separate the talent from the bureaucrats. And with aim like yours, I don't see you failing that, hence the celebration."

Clint downed the rest of his beer as a means of momentary escape. "Gonna grab another one, want one?"

"Sure, and put it on my tab," chirped Rylan.

"Yeah," answered Crewe.

"You'll take a beer from him but not me?" asked Brody with an overly wounded look.

"Less likely to be poisoned," rebuffed Crewe as Clint slipped from the table. He grabbed the empties on his way placing them at the end of the bar as he waited for the bartender to work her way to his end of the counter. In the background Brody's list of times that should have endeared him to Crewe was growing louder and more animated with each passing moment. The pinnacle of which was announced by the thud of his chair toppling over, splaying Brody on the floor.

"Friend of yours?" asked the bartender nodding towards Brody who was trying to salvage his dignity by scrambling off the floor with more coordination than he went down with.

Clint glanced back at the spectacle. "That's not the word I'd use."

The brunette smiled leaning across the bar so she wouldn't have to shout over the other conversations taking place. "What word would you use?"

The archer smiled fondly. "Passing acquaintance, probably going to be the death of me."

That seemed to peak her interest as she asked enthusiastically, "Is that some military code?"

The question threw Clint for a moment. "Military?"

"Yeah. There's two kinds of people that come to this shit hole: lowlifes and these military _'we're trying not to seem like we work for the man_ ' type, like your friends there, and you don't really seem their type," she explained with confidence.

"I guess that just leaves lowlife then," chuckled Clint. Some might take it as an insult, but it was an apt description for the majority of his life.

The brunette eyed him up and down closely in a way that made Barton feel like he was splayed open for the world to see; all his sins and triumphs laid out for dissection and measurement. "Somehow I don't think so, at least not completely."

"Robin Hood here is a hero," slurred Brody, suddenly next to Clint and leaning heavily against the counter suggesting it was probably holding him up more than his own legs. "I'll have another," he declared before leaning against Barton to drunkenly whisper, "you were taking too long."

"Rude and a lightweight," laughed the brunette, twisting off a bottle cap and passing the bottle to Brody.

He looked longingly at the server. "How about it?" His flirting was tempered with a hopefulness that wasn't completely drowned under judgement clouding booze.

"No," stated the brunette, firmly as though she'd been asked to do something she found morally reprehensible. Barton buried his laugh behind his bottle of beer. She turned her stone gaze towards the archer. "You think _you_ have shot, do you?"

Clint gave a one shoulder shrug as he placed his bottle back on the counter. "A _shot_? Maybe not with you, but I do have impeccable aim."

"Yeah?" Her face softened with intrigue. "We'll see about that." She reached under the counter and pulled out a set of darts, placing them in his hand, she pointed to the dartboard in the back corner of the bar. "You hit the board, you earn the right to conversation during a game of pool... where I kick your ass. You miss, you take your inebriated friend back to your table to exchange conspiracy theories about how you think I'm a lesbian for turning you both down."

Barton glanced towards the dartboard. Looking back at the bartender he threw the dart. Without watching the aftermath of his throw he declared, "Bullseye. Wrack them up." The amazement in her eyes was the only confirmation he needed as to his accuracy.

Brody let out a frustrated sigh and turned to the blonde that had stepped up beside him to grab a drink of her own.

Trying to keep from looking impressed, the bartender said, "Most people step up to the line to take a shot, not stand at the bar."

"I'm not most people," countered Barton.

The server threw her dishcloth down on the counter. "Frank, I'm taking off early," she yelled at the muscular man hauling out cases of beer from the back.

"Sure thing Laura," he answered as she slipped out from behind the bar meeting up with Barton at the pool table.

It'd been awhile since his last casual hook up, spending a year running for his life from Coulson and then the next two under Phil and SHIELD's thumb, but he wasn't so far removed from the game that he missed the flirtatious way she racked up the balls and chalked her cue. An extra helping of dessert might not be the cherry on his night after all.

"Should we make it interesting?" she purred. "Hundred bucks for the winner?"

Clint smiled. He wasn't in the habit of taking money from people who didn't have it coming or were too stupid to hold on to it. "Nope."

"You only steal from the rich then, Robin?" she countered, seeming affronted at his denial.

"Are you rich?"

"No, but you assume you're going to win," she challenged.

He leaned in close. "As one of the _lowlifes_ in your bar, it stands to reason that I might have played a time or two before." He only had to tip his head a fraction to find himself pressed against her red lips. Instead he grabbed the block of chalk resting beside her hand and began chalking his cue. "But if you want to be parted from your money, I think I can give you hand with that."

She ran her tongue over her lip and smiled. Assuming her stance, she lined the cue ball up and took her shot. The balls clinked and rolled around the table spreading across the burgundy velvet. Three successive thunks followed as she watched Clint follow the balls movements. "Solids," she called, moving to the other side of the table to take her next shot.

She got through six of her balls before missing her first shot and Clint believed he might actually be in trouble. She'd done a good job of limiting his shot options even with stripes dominating the table. It reminded him of when he'd play with Barney; they'd sneak into towns to win money hustling pool. It took just as much skill to play bad as it did to turn the tables and clean up on the money; Barney always being just slightly better than he was. They'd conveniently stopped playing around the time Clint thought he might have a chance at outplaying his older brother.

Laura watched Barton make a few impressive shots himself before missing and allowing her to line up her next shot. "So does _impeccable aim_ have a name? Or are you going to bust out the old, 'I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you' bit that I bet so many of your GQ friends are dying to get out?"

"Clint." He shifted his cue to the other hand to shake hers. "And what do I call the 'world hardened bartender, who's seen it all before'?"

"Laura." She stood up straight, the cue ball pushing its target into the desired pocket as she accepted his hand. "Nice to meet you. And I'm only moonlighting as a bartender to get through school. That world weariness you see is the result of one too many all nighters spent studying for biology exams. Naturally, you'd assume that a girl putting herself through medical school would jump at the all the green one could make as a stripper, but I have a history of making terrible decisions when it comes to men so what better job than bartender. I mean look around, it's a practical buffet of one bad choice after another all laid out for the taking and I get to keep my clothes on at the start of the night."

Clint switched places with her to take his next shot. He knew a thing or two about bad decision making and placing one's self in the optimal situation to take advantage of that. "Biology, huh? Going to be the one to cure cancer or something?"

"Hardly," she laughed, "but I do intend to take care of people. Figured nursing would be as lucrative as it would be rewarding."

"So working at a seedy bar give you extra practice stitching people up?"

Laura shrugged. "Can't beat real life experience. And what do you do? I mean when Robin Hood isn't standing up for the poor."

"Eight ball, side pocket," he called. He'd lied a million times before, both to survive and now for a living, but he bit his lip this time. Adding dishonestly to what felt like an honest moment felt like it would cheapen it. But it was his obligation to protect Laura from his real life even if she never knew it. "I'm a contracted employee. I fix problems for people."

"Nice game," she conceded as the last ball found its final resting place. "Problem fixing pay well?"

"It pays shit, but it has certain perks I can't find anywhere else."

Laura stepped into his space, leaning in close. "I might have a problem you could fix," she teased.

The moment was put on hold as a chair went flying across the room, slamming against the wall and hitting the floor in several pieces. The action was quickly followed by several people rushing the culprit and several more rushing to his defense. In mere moments the whole room broke out into an all out brawl.

Clint was never one to shy away from a fight but one glance at the bar and the bartender on the phone told the archer the cops would be by shortly to break things up. Being implicated in a misdemeanour wasn't something he wanted to confess to Coulson tomorrow morning.

As if sensing his apprehension, Laura grabbed his hand and began pulling him towards the back. "Come on, there's a back door this way. We can skip out before the cops show."

Clint searched the room one last time to see where Brody and Crewe had ended up. Crewe was already dragging Brody out of the building and would probably be back for Clint momentarily. Deep down he knew he should make his escape with Crewe, it was the responsible thing to do but another part of him knew he'd never have a better chance to slip his babysitter and take a moment for himself; maybe actually get to know someone that didn't form their social circle based on who had the same clearance level as them. It was selfish but he wanted the connection to the real world, no matter how fleeting the moment would be. He felt Laura tug at his hand again and decided to take the chance; one night to himself before he had to give himself entirely to SHIELD's beck and call.


	5. Command Me to be Well

Clint rubbed his eyes as the warm sunlight crawled across his face. Reluctantly he released his grip on sleep and cracked open his eyes. His brain stuttered to a stop for a second before all his senses awoke sharply. The pillow didn't smell like his pillow, a faint scent of orange lingered in the fabric, and the mattress was certainly not the lumpy thing that had been assigned to his room. He was definitely not in his room, or even on base for that matter.

He bolted to a sitting position and frantically looked around the room. It was quiet and well lit, the other side of the bed having been slept in, was now empty. He relaxed slightly as the details of his night slotted in place, replacing the trepidation that he might be in hostile territory.

His clothes were haphazardly piled on a nearby chair just past the clock on the nightstand that currently read 8:30. "Shit!" exclaimed Clint as he frantically tried to get dressed. This was not how he wanted his first day as an agent to start.

Stumbling out of the bedroom he found the tiny apartment empty. Placed on the kitchen table was a large cup of take out coffee and a hastily written note.

_Had a biology exam this morning, key's above the door frame._

_Please lock up when you let yourself out. Have a good day_

_-Laura_

Clint gratefully grabbed the Styrofoam cup as he fumbled with his boots. Running down the street, towards the bus stop, he happened to catch a glimpse of the coffee shop with the same logo that was printed on the cup. Mentally calculating the time it would take him to get back to base and slink into the briefing, he knew no matter how he planned it he was going to be a few minutes late. If he grabbed coffee for everyone, he might be able to deflect his lateness. Or at least have a gift to place on the sacrificial altar.

* * *

Coulson glanced up as Barton entered the briefing room precariously balancing several trays of coffee. The archer placed his burden on the table, and randomly began passing them to the people assembled and slipped into the nearest vacant seat. It wasn't the punctuality Phil had been hoping for, but by virtue of a copying incident the reports for the meeting had been late as well, giving the archer a small window for tardiness.

He heard about the late night excursion and wasn't surprised Clint wasn't eagerly waiting for him in the briefing room this morning. The more cynical part of him half expected Barton to miss the brief altogether after seeing the rough shape Brody had been in, in the cafeteria line that morning. He took a sip of his coffee before settling in to listen to the presentation and mission outline.

SHIELD had found a trafficker and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. A meeting had been set that they believed the Black Widow was going to act as broker in. Coulson was going to lead the team with a support tactical unit moving in once the agreement had been settled, giving them the Black Widow, her handler, and hopefully a means to take down the infamous Red Room program. While Clint wouldn't be directly involved in the breach, he was going to be performing as sniper and performing reconnaissance.

As the meeting came to a close, Coulson shut his binder but remained seated. "Barton, if you could stay behind a moment," he requested.

Crewe gave Barton a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he left with the rest of the staff, leaving Coulson and Clint alone.

The archer had the decency to look a little apologetic. "Look, I know I was a little late..."

Phil held his hand up. "What exactly is it that I'm supposed to call Laura about?" he asked turning his coffee cup around to expose the phone number written on the side of the cup with a scribbled 'call me sometime- Laura' under the number.

The archer rubbed his hand through the back of his hair, a slight blush crawling up his neck. In his hurry to leave the apartment he hadn't noticed the number and in his haste to distribute the cups he had failed again to see it. His first day was going so well.

Figuring the slight embracement was punishment enough, he'd been that young once too, he explained, "While I try to stay out of my assets' personal lives, I hope I don't have to explain to you the intent behind secret organization and matters of national security?"

"No, sir."

"Good. I'd hate to think you were picking up on Agent Brody's less desirable traits."

Clint looked as though he was going to ask how Phil knew Rylan had anything to do with last night but thought better of it. A man like Coulson didn't share his secrets on how to maintain the upper hand. He did gratefully take the easy criticism over potential discipline and jumped at the opportunity to leave and study his mission notes. Day one and he'd already put himself behind the eight ball.

* * *

Clint hit the cafeteria for an early lunch and a break from studying what had to be the driest mission brief he'd ever had the pleasure of reading. He headed for Crewe and Brody's table; they were still the only people that seemed willing to want to socialize with him. Rumors from his previous stint with Major Horn having rippled over the entire organization, reaching places before Clint himself had the opportunity to cultivate a different reputation. For the most part it didn't bother him, he wasn't looking for friends, but he could do without the suspicious looks and whispers when he entered a room. This morning had just given the gossip mill another reason to bring his name up.

Brody pried his head off the table as Clint sat down, looking something akin to death. "Walk of shame Barton?"

"Not particularly," offered the archer, not regretting the night before but rather his entrance this morning.

Rylan glanced over at Crewe's plate, turning slightly green at the sight of the greasy eggs spread across the plate. He quickly dropped his head back to the table in an effort to ease the nausea. "Do you have to eat that?" he mumbled, the words slightly obscured by the table.

"I like eggs." Crewe's smile widened. "And I know when to stop drinking. Just because you lack that judgment, doesn't mean the rest of us can't enjoy our meal."

"Agent Valance went missing last week," snapped Brody, a sharp edge to his voice as the accusation settled. Brody's ease evaporated. It was like a strand of beads suddenly snapping, something formerly beautiful crashing to the floor with horrendous noise.

Crewe's smile turned into cold indifference, ice locking his features in place. "Agents go missing all the time. And don't be a child."

"Specially around you Crewe. Kill anyone today?" snarled Brody, lifting his head back up. He turned to Clint. "That's what he does, you know? SHIELD's personal cleanup crew; taking out SHIELD personal for the last ten years."

The pair glared at each other for a moment and Clint felt slightly lost as to what was happening. The gentle teasing nature Rylan exuded fell behind something accusatory and spiteful. While the two men were like oil and water, they were never volatile towards each other, preferring instead to take cheap shots and digs at one another. Now they were aiming loaded words at each other. "Day's still young, unless you're volunteering; might make my quota for the week then," replied Crewe, becoming equally embittered.

"I bet," snarked Brody, pushing away from the table. "You should check some personal files out sometime Barton."

"He's certainly brave when there are witnesses around," muttered Crewe, unwrapping his sandwich.

Even with Brody leaving, Crewe did nothing to dismiss or explain Brody's declaration. "Is that what you do? Kill your friends?" snapped Barton. He heard rumors that Crewe was sentenced to exile in training Barton and not currently a part of a strike team because of an incident involving the death of several SHIELD agents, but the archer had dismissed it as hearsay. He couldn't shake the all too familiar feeling he got around Barney near the beginning of the end of their relationship, one that ended in Clint's blood being spilled and Barney walking away.

Any kind of familiarity Crewe had been showing turned to ice. "Is that what you think, that these people are your friends? That's your first mistake Barton. You need to learn to recognize people. First you have people like Brody, opportunists. You haven't seen it yet because there hasn't been anything to crawl over your dead body to get yet. Then there's people like Coulson; patriots. They would shoot their own mothers if Fury wrapped the mission in the right color paper. There are the deranged that do it because it's legal to do things common people would land in jail for, your last chances, who bide their time until they can slip Fury's leash because they're lone wolf types. Then you have your robots who can only do what they're told and then those that owe their life to someone in the agency and spend every day trying to convince someone they were worth it. But make no mistake, they're not your friends Barton."

The words were spoken so matter-of-factly that Clint had to swallow a lump in his throat. It wasn't anything he hadn't learned on his own already; apparently SHIELD life was making him soft. He'd been blinded by the flash and bang of promises and hope and now the shock of realizing he was in a den of lions was slowly settling over him.

"It's not the people you feel your can't trust that'll get you," continued Damian, "you'll see their betrayal coming a mile away. It's the ones you think you can trust, the one's you let in and give the greatest weapons against you. Those are the ones that'll sell you out for the price of an extra value meal. You're an agent now, it's time to grow up." He threw his napkin over the plate in disgust and stormed out of the cafeteria.

Clint sat staring at his bottle of water, the rest of the sounds of the room drowning under his thoughts. He'd spent his whole life wanting to be part of the 'club'. It had started with the kids at school, then the circus in general and soon Barney and the makeshift family he was putting together that didn't seem to include the one blood relation he had left. Every time Clint thought he made it into the fold, the gang seemed to disband or prove that one shouldn't look behind the curtain. He'd thought once he jumped through enough of SHIELD's hoops he might start to feel safe, like he belonged but if what Brody said was true, SHIELD still didn't trust him.

Breaking into the record archives on base wouldn't be hard, they'd given him all the skills to do it, but part of him wanted to hold onto the delusion a little while longer. If he didn't look for proof he could pretend that things stood a chance of working out. In the end, experience prevailed and Clint decided he wasn't going to be caught unaware like he had with Barney.


	6. My Church Offers No Absolutes

The walls shuddered as the door to Coulson's office door burst open, slamming hard against the doorstop. He glanced towards the door and calmly stated, "Knocking's not really a thing with you?"

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" seethed Barton, rigid with clamped down rage.

To their credit, neither occupant in the office had flinched at the sudden and unexpected intrusion. Coulson's guest didn't even bother to turn around as Phil calmly put his coffee cup back down. "Barton, we work for a government agency that specializes in espionage; you're going to have to be more specific about what it is I hoped you wouldn't find out about."

"Crewe!" snapped Clint, Coulson's calm doing nothing to soothe his anger; at that point it was a red flag in front of a bull.

Phil bit the inside of his lip as he pondered the exact way to delicately handle the coming storm with minimal damage; he'd hoped the hurricane would have missed them. Looking to the still statue sitting across him he said, "Melinda, will you excuse us please?"

"Sure," answered May, gracefully getting out of her seat. She gave Barton a harsh glare as she brushed past him, but the archer didn't even blink in the face of her nonverbal threat.

Coulson gestured to the now empty seat in front of him. "Have a seat."

Clint glared at it for a moment, as though the chair had somehow offended him as well. After a moment he muttered under his breath and took a seat, his arms crossed over his chest, a defensive wall between him and the senior agent. "Well?" he hissed.

Phil thought about playing dumb for a moment, to get Clint to spell out exactly what was bothering him, but based on the reaction, it could only be one thing. It wasn't something talked about within SHIELD, a dirty little secret that most could forget about as long as Crewe himself wasn't in the same room. With Barton's history of authority and trust issues, it wasn't a giant leap to understand the young man's obvious conclusion when presented with the facts. "Agent Crewe was brought into SHIELD to perform a certain... function, one that a lot of people can't stomach," started Phil.

Not interested in fancy ways of dancing around the truth, Clint jumped in. "Is that your fancy way of saying he kills SHIELD agents?"

"He is tasked with removing inside threats, yes," Coulson agreed. "But I assure you that's not the case here." Clint snorted and focused his gaze on the stack of papers piled up on the corner of the desk. "We felt that Agent Crewe would be more suited to helping offer a more specialized training program as opposed to the standards offered by the Academy."

"That's not what it says in my file," countered the archer, with smug defiance. He'd trusted Coulson and now finding that that trust had been misplaced, he wasn't going to allow the man to spit in his face and call it rain. All the months of built up trust seeming to wash away like writing in sand as the tide rolls in, removing all trace that it ever existed.

Phil's brow creased. "Not what's in your file? When did you even see your file?" He had a momentary flicker of fear that Fury might have plans and suspicions that were above Coulson's clearance level.

"I broke into the archives."

"You broke into SHIELD secure archives?" Coulson's fingers were flying across his keyboard before he even finished his sentence. The page in question loaded on the screen and like a flashing yellow hazard light, was the internal investigation code in bold face type. Phil had seen Barton's file almost as much as his own reflection, but now it had been altered. He looked Barton square in the eyes, hoping to convey enough honestly that the archer might soften his edges. "I swear to you that this is a mistake."

Clint rolled his eyes; he'd been down this road before: trust me, trust me, so I can be the first one to put the knife in your back. "A mistake that I found out about before you get to off me, you mean? If your plan was to take me out, wouldn't it have been easier to let me bleed out in that alley or is that how you people get your kicks?"

"I saved you in that alley because..."

"You shot me first," injected the archer, a look of horror splayed on his face as he realized foundation he's built his church upon was hollow and cracked. Lies never supported the weight of anything beautiful.

"Because I felt there was potential in you to do something better, to be better than what you were. I will find out how this happened and I will fix it. You have my personal assurance nothing will happen to you; Crewe isn't here for that." His eyes pleaded with the angry young man to withhold judgment until Phil got to the bottom of things. Everything he had done to help Barton had been genuine, but SHIELD always had secondary objectives and Phil prayed that the archer wasn't going to fall victim to them. Fury had personally assured him that Crewe was brought in based on his skill set as a specialist and not to asses Barton as a threat.

"Fine, whatever," spat Clint, not interested in listening to anymore lies. The walls that he had cautiously began to dismantle were building themselves back up. It was always a matter of time before he got kicked to the curb, passed off, or in some extreme cases, left for dead as a means of termination of service or familial ties. It had become his own personal goal to set the inevitable on his terms, to force their hand at his convenience and spend his days waiting for when they decided he was no longer worthy. Even after Coulson's assurances, that wouldn't happen, he had still pushed, tested the tenuous boundaries that defined his usefulness, certain he would be proven right. Now that it was happening, he was kind of disappointed that it was going to come to an end; sad. A tiny part of his had actually started to believe that things would be different, that he had found his place after all. The hollowness in his chest wasn't a new feeling, but this time it seemed deeper.

He was only kept around because he was useful and the second that usefulness came to an end, Barton would too. He hadn't been able to endear himself to his brother in the end, but perhaps he could make himself invaluable to SHIELD. He just needed the opportunity. As much as his covert revelation hurt, this was still the best situation he'd found himself in in a very long time. Starting over again, being hunted, had little appeal. Clint could make the worst situations work for him is he tried hard enough; knowing SHIELD was keen on his 'disposal' just showed him exactly what he was working with. If he could keep his tenuous grip on the pieces to make it look like they were holding, he could pretend that it was enough, that he was still whole.

Coulson looked relieved. "Thank you Barton."

Clint shook his head and silently left Coulson's office. Numb was better than a never ending ache; he would struggle to hold on to numbness now and let the last fragile piece of himself fall away.

* * *

Melinda watched as Phil puttered around his office, signing off on any last minute reports and triple checking updates about his pending mission. It wasn't the visit she was hoping to get in while she waited for her ride back to Los Angeles, but when duty called, all familiarities got pushed to the side. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were nervous."

Phil paused. "I'm not nervous about the mission. We have all our bases covered, one of the best infiltration teams going and a highly trained and competent team for back."

"I didn't say you were nervous about the mission, Phil." Out in the field, Coulson was a rock; there was no one she'd rather have watching her back. A Coulson mission was well constructed, researched and executed, all variables taken into consideration; it was the people aspect that got Phil slightly rattled. It wasn't a problem when they were given the orders, but when having to give the orders themselves, Coulson had to work extra hard to put that professional distance between himself and the body count.

"It doesn't seem that long ago that I was reporting to a handler. When did that situation get reversed?" He thought back fondly to the excitement of starting out in his career before the weight of secrets and failure had slowly began to pile up until it cast a shadow on the actual good that was being achieved.

"Well, if you'd taken Director Fury up on his offer to become the next Assistant Director, you wouldn't have to worry about things like this." She would miss pulling mission with Phil if he decided to ascend the hierarchical ranks, but Fury never made it a secret where he wanted Coulson's career to go. And whether or not Phil realized it, this was the first step.

"AD Ripley isn't going to retire anytime soon. Besides, I know I can make more of a difference here instead of playing babysitter to an entire organization."

Her lips pulled in an evil smile. "Yeah, you're just playing babysitter to one petulant child." Coulson frowned causing May to smile even more. "I heard you sent Crewe after Brody?"

Phil tried to hide his disdain for the situation. Never one for practical jokes himself, ones that held such dire consequences were enough to make Phil's blood boil. It only took a few phone calls to figure out that Brody had placed a falsified file in Barton's folder to implicate Crewe in a covert assignment against the archer. A few more phone calls proved that the joke wasn't that far from the truth. Phil may trust and believe in the wayward archer, but others within SHIELD didn't. Fury had been willing to overlook Barton's missteps both before his recruitment and during his tenure with the covert agency, but the Security Council wasn't as generous or forgiving, forcing Fury to take certain measures to soothe their ruffled feathers. "He messed with my agent," he replied smugly. Coulson wanted to unload his problems, but secrets were only safe if no one knew them and he couldn't take the chance that Barton might find out that there was some truth to Brody's interference.

"Seems like it was something between you and Brody, but you sent Crewe." Having Coulson rain fury on someone was bad enough, but at the end of the day Phil had to stay within the rules; Crewe had a licence to operate however he wanted.

"It's slightly scarier to have SHIELD's internal assassin get in your face. I thought you didn't like Brody?" In Coulson's experience, most people didn't like Brody and if it was in his power to tell Barton who he could and couldn't be friends with, he would have blacklisted Brody long ago. But the archer seemed to keep to himself rather than socialize and even if he didn't like what Brody brought to the table, the archer seemed to allow the other man's company. He was just going to have to go to greater lengths to protect Clint from Rylan's negative influence. Worse and probably the part that made Phil want to have his head examined was that Brody seemed to believe in Barton as well, meaning that he and Coulson agreed on something.

"I don't," she answered simply. "He deserves everything coming to him. I'd just hate to think he'll be six feet under before it comes to him. Or that Crewe gets hauled off on charges before he can drop any more bombs about this case," she added under her breath.

"How'd you hear about that?" asked Coulson. Melinda tipped her head, raising one eyebrow as if to ask Coulson if that was a real question. "The Director was unsurprised at his revelation about the Red Room and Crewe being responsible for faking Mr Csaszar death."

"He rarely is surprised when it comes to Crewe. You should really find out about that," suggested May, eager to unravel another layer of mystery surrounding Fury's attack dog.

"Maybe it will be my reward when I turn Barton into the perfect agent," chuckled Phil. He considered himself and Fury friends, their friendship was now slotted into the constraints of the chain of command, but even he was left in the dark when it came to the history of Crewe's recruitment by Fury into SHIELD. Based on what little he had been privy to, Phil was almost glad he didn't know the dark and questionable specifics of their arrangement. "I'll let you know how things turn out," promised Coulson as he pulled on his jacket.

Melinda gracefully rose out of her chair and headed for the office door. "You better. And be careful out there."

* * *

**Somewhere in Turkey**

"Sector four is secure. Bravo-five and bravo-seven are in position. No eyes on target yet," reported the monotone voice of the leader of the support team.

Coulson glanced at the monitors in the surveillance van taking in the vantage points of the different team members surrounding the area. All was quiet and 'normal' as they waited for contact. He tapped his comm. unit. "Barton, report."

"I don't have eyes on the target yet," he replied robotically.

Phil never thought he's see the day where he missed the archer's usual snarky or playful replies. The plane ride had been tense, Clint distancing himself both physically and mentally from the rest of the team. Coulson wasn't sure he had the energy to try and win over the young man a second time.

"Crewe?"

"Perimeter is secure."

Coulson leaned back in his creaking chair and tried to get comfortable. There was nothing left to do, but wait for the Black Widow to make contact with their trafficker. He didn't have to wait long as the surveillance team reported movement the same time a figure began to move across one of the screens.

"Everyone hold position. Let's let the meeting take place and be sure we have the right target," ordered Coulson. He unconsciously tightened his grip on the armrest of the chair. He was playing a valuable part in the operation to take out the Black Widow, but there was still no substitute for actually being in the middle of the action.

He was trying not to get a head of himself, envisioning putting the Black Widow file away with a red completed stamp across the front. The target hadn't made SHIELD's radar without skill. To this day the best they had were vague partial descriptions with no actual eye witness conformations.

"We have target approaching."

"Barton, can you confirm?" relayed Coulson.

Clint shifted his rifle slightly to put the figure entering the market in front of him in his crosshairs. "Confirmed. Have eyes on suspect approaching the cafe." The specific details of the person in question were hidden behind the black burqa they adorned which helped conceal the identity of the person approaching their contact. The archer had taken out many people, but there was something disconcerting about not being able to see the target's face, like somehow anonymity granted absolution from their crimes.

The collective SHIELD team in place held their breath as they waited for confirmation from their contact that the suspect was in fact the person coming to the meeting. Clint watched intently through his scope, analyzing every movement and searching for any clue as to the identity of the person shrouded in black. Reluctantly he shifted his scope back towards their reluctant contact to gauge his reaction to the person slowly approaching him without seeming like they were walking straight towards the patio of the cafe. From the corner of his view he could see their target stiffen slightly. It took a second to realize their contact wasn't simply tapping his finger behind his back, but tapping out a warning.

There was no way the approaching suspect could see the warning, behind the man's back which meant it was for someone else, someone close to Barton's position. "Coulson, contact is issuing a warning to someone, the meeting's been compromised," reported Clint. No sooner had he issued the warning than the suspect turned and began to walk out of the market, their pace increasing the further away they moved.

"Strike team move in and secure contact and suspect," yelled Coulson, the urgency of his words echoing his volume.

The team began to move in position, cuffing their contact with ease, but beginning chase of their suspect. Barton started to line up his shot for the fleeing suspect when movement on the side street pulled his attention. Another individual dressed in a black burqa was moving away from the market in the opposite direction. They were identical to the suspect they were currently chasing in height and stature. Clint could almost pass it off as coincidence if not for his gut feeling and the fact that they pulled out a hand radio before taking their leave of the shadows.

"Sir, I have a second suspect fleeing the scene. Moving to secure them," said the archer, tapping his comm.

"Negative," replied Coulson. "Hold position."

Clint glanced back at the action unfolding in front of him. The strike team looked to have things well in hand, leaving little need for a sniper, however if he waited they wouldn't be to get to the second suspect before they disappeared. The only one in range was Barton.

The archer was paralyzed by indecision. Coulson had spent the last year drilling in the need to follow orders, to trust that SHIELD omnipotence would see things to a satisfactory conclusion. On the other hand, recent revelations had shown that most of what Clint had come to believe about his place within the organization were lies. If this was in fact the Black Widow in the shadows and Barton brought her in, it would secure his place and his value. This was the moment he could prove himself both loyal and irreplaceable.

"Sir, I have to..." started Barton, decision made.

"Negative. I repeat, hold position. That's an order Agent," commanded Coulson. There was no denying his disapproval of the archer's proposal.

"Moving now." Clint placed his rifle down gently and moved to the edge of the rooftop. The rope he'd used to scale the building was still securely in place and worked to help him descend in record time. He hit the ground running, adrenaline fuelling his dash and blocking out Coulson's anger as he redirected team members on the ground.

His target was doing a good job of blending in on the street, retreating tactfully and not drawing attention to them self the way Barton's full out run was. The angry protests of people as he dodged them on the street alerted his target to their newly acquired tail, hastening their retreat. Clint had done a good job of closing the gap between them, his hand reaching out to grab their shoulder. He missed, latching onto the fabric of the burqa instead.

He pulled on the fabric just as the suspect rounded into an alleyway. He almost stumbled as the tension slipped away, leaving him with a handful of cloth and the retreating back of a redhead woman. He threw the clothing aside and continued his chase down the winding alley ways.

He'd lost visual after a few turns, but kept moving forward in hopes of closing the gap once more. His attention was pulled back the way he came by the sound of several high velocity shots ringing out in the market. Still at a running, he turned his head towards the sound just as he passed an open doorway.

His world exploded in stars as metal baton slammed hard into his gut. He folded over but kept on his feet. To add insult to injury, he felt the burning hot points of a tasar jab in his back. Crumbling under the weight of the electricity shooting through his body, he landed on his back looking up at the entirely too young face of an impassive redhead. She watched as Barton writhe and twitched on the ground. Momentarily distracted by the gunshots had left him open and she'd taken immediate advantage of it.

She stared at him, zero emotion playing on her face, the spider analyzing the bug in her web; he was completely at her mercy, and she was known to be merciless. Instead of moving in to finish him off, she stepped over his twitching body, her green eyes breaking contact with him and letting him drown in his pain.

No sooner had she disappeared around the corner, that he heard his name being called. Crewe came to a stop beside the archer, a look of sympathy wrapped in irritation. "Real smooth. How'd that work out for you Barton?" he asked smugly before tapping his comm. "I've got him."

Still unable to summon the muscle coordination to even form slurred words, Clint just let his eyes close as Crewe hoisted him over his shoulder and began the walk back to the extraction point. His one chance to endear himself to SHIELD and he's blown it, let what might as well have been a child get the better of him and evade capture. Coulson was going to have his head, figuratively and literally if Crewe didn't just take him behind a building and do it now.


	7. In the Madness and Soil of that Sad Earthly Scene

**SHIELD Hospital: Rome, Italy**

Clint's mouth tasted like old socks and antiseptic beyond being drier than sandpaper. It was nothing compared to the dull ache that encompassed every inch of him. For a moment he considered just laying there and dying, but the prickle of skin on his right side warned him that he might not be as alone as the darkness behind his eyes pretended. He rolled his head slowly to the side, allowing the swimming colors of the room begin to morph into recognizable shapes.

"Well, what did we learn?" prompted Crewe from the chair beside Barton's hospital bed.

As usual Damian was void of emotion making him one hell of a poker player, but horrible to get a read on in situations. Clint glared to cover his slight wince at sitting up. He was decidedly not at the SHIELD sanctioned safe house in Turkey and more importantly not twitching on a dusty back street. "How long was I out?"

Crewe glanced at the clock above the door. "Long enough for a direct flight Rome. They gave you the good stuff."

Confusion played across the archer's face. They still had a job to finish and it sure wasn't taking place in Rome. "Rome? Why are we here?"

"Coulson's orders. I don't think he's a huge fan of the medical team we had stationed there. You and I are on the next transport back to Seattle though."

"What does it matter who treats me? It's not that bad," complained Clint. He was already going to catch hell for his stunt back there, he didn't need to add forcing the team to go globetrotting on his behalf to the list. The fact that Crewe was escorting him back set warning bells off in his head. He'd fucked up badly enough to get kicked off the mission and sent home. So far in his plan to make himself invaluable to SHIELD, he'd only made the mountain he'd half to climb bigger. Pulling out his IV, he asked, "Where is Coulson anyway?"

"We're not here for your treatment, it's for Coulson, he's in surgery."

That brought Barton up short.

Before he could ask, Crewe continued, "After our sniper abandoned his position, Zulu team didn't have any cover. Coulson went in as back up and took one in the shoulder from an enemy sniper we didn't have eyes on. But you were right, our contact was selling us out, warning the Widow away. Guess we're not as persuasive as we thought. As of now, you're on stand down and the second someone has a moment that isn't devoted to trying to salvage this operation, you're going to have your ass chewed out." Crewe didn't look especially pleased or put out by the thought.

Clint felt like he was drowning. His hand curled into a tight ball until his fingernails pressed painfully into his flesh. Coulson had told him to stay, to hold position, but he'd followed his instincts and Phil had paid the price. It wasn't the outcome Clint had been looking for at all. He could feel himself shutting down; there would be no coming back from this. The one person that had seemed to believe in him had fallen victim to Barton's penchant for disaster. It was one thing to screw his own life up, he was a professional at that, but he did try to limit his collateral damage. He was done for sure.

He didn't remember the flight home at all, knew he hadn't found his voice to ask for a status update on Phil. The only thing that had permeated the fog was Crewe's warning to keep his head down and stay out of the way for the next few days. Staring at the walls in his room wasn't doing anything to stop the growing numbness or the chasm that was replacing his guts. He needed to get out to get away and catch his breath. He needed a plan or something to numb him completely.

* * *

**Redrum Bar, Seattle**

Clint passed through the thick haze of the bar, mindlessly moving through the sea of people to the beckoning call of the bar. Throwing himself on the stool he signaled for a drink, a way to drown the disappointment and self-loathing before it consumed him. He'd gotten complacent, let his guard down once his evals has come in and surprised him with an official standing within SHIELD. He should have remembered nothing was infallible in his life; a life time of stellar choices ruined every good thing he had. He's lost the circus and his brother when he chose the moral high ground. Innocent people were hurt when he sunk to surviving as a mercenary. Now he'd made the mistake of believing he was safe in SHIELD's embrace, could let his emotions shape his decisions and they'd put up with him; they hadn't planned to. He'd compounded that by trying to prove his worth; Coulson paid the price for the last one.

"You look like you had a bad day," said Laura, popping off the beer cap and placing the cold bottle in front of Clint, refusing his money.

"You could say that," he grunted, snatching the bottle to pull a long sip off of it.

She leaned against the counter closing the space between them. "Well let me the first to tell you, this is a horrible coping mechanism."

Barton glanced around the bar before turning his glare back to the bottle. She was being nice, sympathetic and she didn't even know what he'd done; he didn't deserve it. "I'm pretty sure your paycheck is derived from people's bad coping mechanisms," he growled.

Where most people would have left him to his misery, she didn't turn to walk away. More determined than before she said, "True. But you're not like the rest of them."

"What am I like?" he asked darkly.

"You're a good person, Clint." Ignoring his snort of disagreement, Laura continued, "And you're destined for greater things than alcoholism and a revolving door of sleazy bars to fill the emptiness inside of you."

He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Well I come from a whole line of alcoholics, so shows what you know. And as for being a good person, good people don't get other people hurt. Spending one night together doesn't mean you know anything about me."

She didn't flinch in the face of his hatred, in fact she softened more. "Are they dead?"

"What?" The bluntness of the question threw him.

"The person that got hurt, did they die?"

Clint pursed his lips together, picking at the label on the bottle as he played out a hundred and one deaths that could befall Coulson with the archer in his life. "No."

"Then you have tomorrow to make it right, make it up to them."

Clint hunched further over his bottle. "Not that simple."

"You could make it that simple. You're a professional problem solver right?"

The archer lifted his bottle in mock cheers. "That's what I'm doing."

Before he could get the bottle to his lips, Laura snatched it out of his hand, dumping the rest down the drain behind the counter. "That was mine!" protested Clint, more outraged that she'd managed to get it away from him than the fact that he'd have to order another to replace it.

A wall of professionalism erected between them as she declared loudly enough for the other servers to overhear, "I'm cutting you off. You've had enough sir, and it's in my right to cut off any patron that I think has been served enough."

Clint leaned in further, closing the distance between them. "We both know I can handle more than one sip."

"How do I know that? I don't know anything about you," she countered.

"What do you care anyways?" asked Barton, letting his frustration flow. They locked eyes for a moment and part of Clint was terrified that she'd see every dark horrible secret of his life.

"I see losers and deadbeats hourly around here. You're not like them Clint. Don't try to be something you're not."

"What if I'm something worse?" he whispered, his voice so honest and broken it almost hurt.

She placed her hand on top of his, and for a moment the numbing coldness started to fade.

"Barton!" barked someone from behind Clint. As he turned, Laura's hand slipped away leaving him to drift in his own turmoil once again. He eyed up the imposing man before, SHIELD status given away by his well tailored suit and knowledge of Clint's identity. "How'd you like to come on a job for me?"

Clint stared at the man blankly for a moment. "Well..." he made a vague gesture with his hand towards the man to fill in his name.

"Connors," supplied the man.

"Well, Agent Connors, I don't know if you heard but I'm grounded from going on missions at the moment," supplied Clint, his usual insubordination creeping out. He didn't need to rub salt into his wounds.

"I know," answered Connors, seeming undeterred. "I also know that you laid eyes on the target when no one else has and probably have the motivation to see this to the end more than anyone else."

The offer seemed earnest and Clint did want to tip the scales in his favor or at the very least make Coulson getting hurt worth something. "What about Agent Coulson?"

"Your supervising officer is currently under medical care, placing you in the open pool of available assets. The choice is yours son. You can come with my team tomorrow or you can sit here and drink your weight in alcohol, up to you."

Clint glanced back to find Laura busy with another customer. The offer was everything he wanted and needed, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in his gut. Normally he'd run his concerns by someone, by Coulson, but he wasn't available. Logically he knew having a different handler didn't mean a repeat of what he went through with Horn. This decision was huge, the mission could make him or break him completely. "I'll do it," he said firmly, he had nothing left to lose.


	8. Only then I am Human

**Seattle: SHIELD Northwestern Headquarters**

**Five Days Later**

Coulson adjusted the strap on his sling. There were few things he hated more than the weeks following surgery. Lack of a good night sleep, physical therapy and painkillers mixing with an inability to perform often the most simple of tasks with great efficiency, left him cranky and irritable. The flight home had done nothing for his shoulder like the medical staff had promised, but he wouldn't ever tell them they were right. He was going to be walking into a shit storm upon his return and lying in a hospital bed on the other side of the world was going to do nothing for his temperament. Better to get it over with sooner rather than later.

He knew it was going to be bad, had the whole flight to ponder all the ways the mission had gone wrong and the repercussions that were going to follow, but it hadn't prepared him for just how bad things were when he stepped foot back on the base in Seattle. He'd cleared the hallways in record time when he heard all hands were on deck to run the current operation to take out the Black Widow.

The control room was a flurry of activity signalling the mission was going spectacularly sideways, as Phil would have predicted had he not been blissfully unconscious under the surgeon's knife. They had lost the element of surprise after Turkey, making any attempt to go after the Black Widow or shut down her operation foolhardy.

Foolhardy; he had a very uneasy feeling about what had probably transpired in his absence. "Where's Barton?" Phil demanded, spotting Crewe listening in on one of the mission comm. lines.

Looking resigned, the specialist handed over the headset. "He's on Connors' mission."

Phil snatched the headset, struggling to get it on one handed. He had to clamp down hard on his rising anger. Barton was his agent and not ready to be put on a team and situation the likes of Connors would create; never mind going behind his back to acquire his asset. "This is Agent Coulson, Connors I want a situation report _now_!"

* * *

**Germany, Location Classified**

Clint held his rifle firmly, his body coiled in anticipation of his order. He had eyes on the target, but it felt... wrong. She had been so careful in Turkey, sending in a decoy, having backup, wearing a disguise. Now she was right out in the open, right in Clint's line of fire. Barton had a few things to be confident about in his life, but he'd never stood out in the open when it could be helped and looking around the street, the Black Widow could clearly help putting herself in such a vulnerable position.

"Eyes on target," he reported.

He'd seen her, been thrown by how young she was one the burqa had been shed and could almost consider this misstep one of inexperience. He'd seen her file though, she had more experience than he. He pulled away from his scope and glanced around the area again to see if there was anything he had missed. Everything looked copasetic from his vantage point and he had a highly trained team in position on the ground that hadn't reported anything odd. Even the base back home was patched into surveillance and supervising the operation.

"You're clear to take the shot Barton," commanded Connors.

Clint swallowed down his unease and began to squeeze the trigger. She looked up, not just up but right at him, eerily zeroing in on his position. Her green eyes locked with his despite the distance between them and his world froze. They weren't the eyes of a cold blooded killer. They were the broken and desperate eyes he's seen in the mirror a million times before Coulson found him. A haunted look that asked for the mercy of a bullet to end a lifetime of suffering was staring back at him. It wasn't a misstep on her part, she had put herself in front of him, made it easy. So easy a sniper might not ask questions but take the shot, call it a day and go home.

"Barton, you're authorized to take the shot," repeated Connors.

The command was simple. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Pull the trigger and earn his keep, do the job he was recruited to do. The job Coulson had recruited him for; Coulson, who had given him a chance when he so desperately needed it, when he was at the end of his rope. Coulson, who had looked through the site on his gun and saw something worth saving.

" _What if I'm something worse_?"

Clint was looking at himself two years ago or any part of his life preceding that really. If someone had thought he was worth saving in that position, then who was he to say the person in his scope wasn't worth saving now. Coulson had the right idea, but he had been wrong about Clint. Maybe this was who Coulson was meant to save after all. If Clint pulled the trigger he would slip into the dark world of a cold blooded killer, beyond reach and beyond hope. He realized it was too late to make things right for himself, they were never going to work out for him anyways, but perhaps he could make everyone else's efforts worth something.

Clint nodded to himself and released the tension on the trigger. "I won't take the shot sir."

"Barton, you take that shot now or so help you..."

"This is Agent Coulson, Connors I want a situation report _now_!"

"A report?" snarled Connors. "Situation is your son of a bitch sniper is refusing to take the shot. Target is in sight and he doesn't have the stomach to put a bullet in her brain."

The archer didn't refuse important orders in the field without a compelling reason. Calmly, Coulson asked, "Barton?"

"I won't take the shot sir," answered Clint, surprised by the voice on the other side of the comm. line. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or afraid.

"You'll take the shot or so help me god, when I get through with you..."

"Barton switch to channel four," interrupted Coulson, waiting patiently for his agent to comply.

"Sir?" came the tentative confirmation the archer had switched channels.

Softly, in a direct counterpoint to the open hostility Connors was dousing situation with, Phil asked, "Do you want to explain to me what's going on?"

Clint didn't have the words to explain, or maybe he didn't have the heart. Coulson had gone to such an effort and taken such a risk for him, how could he explain that Phil had gotten it wrong, that what he was about to do would make it all worth it in the end. "I won't take the shot."

"Won't is different than can't wouldn't you agree," began Phil. "Care to share what the issue is agent?"

There was a long pause as Clint tried to think how he could explain the feeling that was gnawing at both his gut and his conscience. "I don't think the reports have this situation right, Coulson. I don't think she's what we think."

* * *

Deep down, Phil had a horrible idea about what his young sniper might be thinking. He tried to keep a lid on his growing panic. Things were threatening to get bigger than he could manage. "Listen to me Barton. There are whole teams of analysts that look over all the data required for an op. After they put together all the information they submit it to an entire group of people that make the correct call."

"That the same system that told you to kill me?" asked the archer. There wasn't any accusation in his voice, but a plea for understanding, a guiding hand to pull him away from the teetering edge.

"Have faith in the system Clint, it won't steer you wrong. I won't steer you wrong."

"I'm sorry sir."

Crewe leaned over to whisper in Phil's ear. "Visual confirmation, Barton's moving out of position.

The words were a kick in the gut for Phil. There was a piece to the puzzle he'd lost somewhere along the way, perhaps he never had it. He was desperate to find something, anything to say to keep Barton from making what would be the worst decision of his life. "Why don't you hold position and tell me exactly what you think they got wrong about the situation? You haven't done anything we can't talk through yet. There's no need to do anything rash."

"How's the shoulder?" It was avoidance at its finest, but Phil couldn't help feel empathy for the underlying guilt in the young man voice.

"Good as new in a couple of weeks." Coulson tried to infuse the words with everything that needed to be said, some convincing argument to sway Barton with just his voice. Silence was his only reply; a black void of not knowing if he was going to save the wayward soul that had been forced on him by Fury's frustration but endured because of a paternal need to protect.

"If you abandon your position I'll see you charged as a traitor, Barton!" interrupted Connors, changing over the comm. channel after reports of the archer moving came in.

"Barton, if you do this, I can't protect you from what comes next," tried Phil.

"I'm sorry sir," came the subdued answer before static filled the room putting the archer forever out of Coulson's reach. The static pushed out everything going on in the control room.

* * *

Barton didn't have time to worry about the team moving in to take out the target and apprehend him as well. He's made his choice pretty clear when he abandoned his position without taking out the target; knew there wasn't a lot of room for interpretation in those actions.

For all that the Black Widow had put herself in the path of his shot, it seemed she had no intention of being apprehended or killed by the SHIELD team advancing on them. She took off down the street on foot, ducking into the nearest building. Clint followed suit, closing the distance between them once again.

The hallways twisted and turned making it simple to lose the following team to strenuous building clearing protocols. With one less thing to worry about, Clint followed the Black Widow out into the parking garage, the door bursting open at his presence. Pulling his handgun he yelled, "Don't move!"

The young girl stopped abruptly, slowly raising her hands and turning around to face him. If it was possible she seemed even younger now than in the alley a week earlier. She stared at him coldly giving no sign that she recognized him.

They stood there, precious seconds ticking away. Clint had to admit the greatness of his plan hadn't actually worked out the specifics of what he was going to do once he caught up to her. His sales pitch wasn't really that promising at the moment _. I know we've been hunting you, but come work for SHIELD, I'm sure they can use you and oh by the way we can't exactly let the SHIELD guys chasing us take up in; they'll probably shoot both of us on sight._

"You had your chance," she said, her eyes shifting past his shoulder slightly.

An uneasy feeling swept over Clint as he began to turn his head to look behind him, but saw nothing but the pavement rushing up to meet him.


	9. No Masters or Kings, when the Ritual Begins

The hard plastic bit against his wrists, just above where the tingling feeling in his hands had begun was the first thing to register. The second was how stiff his whole body was and the constant throb of his head as though someone was drumming on it. He opened his eyes, the left one requiring more effort, sealed shut with what he could only assume was his blood; anything else at this point would be wishful thinking. Tied to a chair in some dark dingy basement, it could be worse. No it couldn't. He pretty much deserted SHIELD, taken after a deadly assassin who wasn't known for keeping hostages alive very long if at all and no way anyone was coming for him. His day couldn't possible get any worse, but then again he wasn't the only one having a bad day by the sounds of it.

The unmistakable sound of flesh connecting hard with flesh filled the room and Clint cocked his head slightly to try and take in what was happening behind him without alerting his hosts to the fact that he was awake. He could just make out the red head pressing her hand against her cheek looking horrifically tiny in the presence of the man looming over her. There was no sting of betrayal in her emerald eyes, it wasn't a Bonnie and Clyde situation that was keeping her there. He could work with that.

His sheer size and facial features reminded Clint of the strong man from the circus, minus the calm temperament.

"You're slipping Natalia. You should have killed him in Turkey. Now we have to clean up your mess," snapped the man.

"Uri..." started the girl.

"Enough. I'll deal with you later. Send Mikhail down here," Uri commanded, emphasising his point by pointing a large meaty finger towards the door. He waited until Natalia left before walking towards the man bound to the chair.

Clint tensed slightly as Uri drew near. He kept his head angled down, watching the man's ever move through his lashes. The dim of the room exploded in light blinding him for a moment.

"He's awake," announced Uri as a second man entered.

Barton's eyes followed the second man as he began to fidget at a nearby table, the sound of metal clinking against metal filling the smallness of the room.

"I'll give you one chance," offered Uri. "Tell me who you work for and what they know and I'll have Mikhail make it quick. If not... let's just say he likes his work."

"That's not much incentive," Clint countered.

"There's no point in lying. I have a pretty good idea where your information came from. I think my little friend Dimitri has been telling tales outside of school. How else would you know about Turkey?" prompted Uri.

"I don't know who Dimitri is and I have nothing to tell you," replied Clint. It was only half a lie; he'd been threatened worse for less. These guys were going to have to do much better. He twisted his wrists trying to work the bindings around his wrists. Uri already made it clear he wasn't going to be leaving this room under his own power. If he was going to escape he was going to have to do it on his own.

"That's too bad for you. I'll leave you to Mikhail's tender love and care," bid Uri before taking his leave.

"Be gentle, I'm delicate," warned the archer.

Mikhail picked up a set of brass knuckles from off the table with a big smile. "Ready for the main event?"

"Well I did get all dressed up."

The man's fist found its mark, Clint's mouth filling up with blood as his head snapped to the side. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Coulson paced the length of the hallway, his irritation not having lessened in the last two days. Teams were still scrambling to piece together what happened and where Barton had disappeared and were no further into unravelling the mystery. Phil had no idea what he was going to tell Fury when his plane finally landed.

The obvious answer was that Barton had betrayed them, at the very least he had violated a book full regulations and procedures to something unsanctioned. Coulson had no justification for any or it. He couldn't see a way to bail the archer out of this one. When Coulson brought his wayward charge back, he was going to kill him. Wrap his hands around Clint's neck and squeeze some goddamn sense into that kid if it's the last thing he did.

He stopped short as the door to the hanger opened and AD Ridley strode boldly in. "Assistant Director Ridley," stammered Phil, scrambling to fall in behind the man that continued to march down the hall. "I thought Director Fury was coming to be debriefed on the matter."

Ridley's cold mask of indifference didn't crack, his voice devoid of any warmth or formality. "Director Fury is unavailable at the moment. You have the pleasure of explaining to me why your recruit went off comms and disappeared with the target."

Phil bit his lip. His pile of crap just got deeper.

* * *

It was surprising how familiar he was with waking up from blacking out from pain. Some would argue disturbingly so. His left eye could barely open and this time it had nothing to do with dry blood; there was no dry blood on his face now. The company was slightly nicer this time around; at least Clint hoped it was.

A red hand print was clearly visible across Natalia's cheek. She casually leaned against the table twirling a slim blade between her fingers as though standing in a room where a man was being tortured was an everyday thing. She looked indifferent as she took in Clint's current state. "You're being too rough with him if you want me to get anything out of him."

Mikhail stepped out of the shadows with a snort. "We don't have time for your pretty persuasion. Uri wants information now to minimize your screw up."

"And what has he told you so far?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'll get it out of him," he snapped, frustrated. The failures had started with Natalia, but if he didn't produce results, he'd be at Uri's mercy too.

Natalia stalked away. "Not if he's dead."

Clint could do nothing but glare as he felt the telltale pinch of a needle being stabbed in his shoulder. Not even the blood flowing freely down his arms had slicked his restraints enough for him to slip out of them.

The solid impact of brass knuckles forced Barton's head to snap to the side as his vision went watery. He tried to form some retort about hitting like a girl but the blow seemed to have done its job, stunning Clint enough that his mutinous tongue refused to cooperate.

Mikhail circled around Barton's chair. "Let's start with something easy, shall we? Give me your name," he demanded, a predatory smile exposing his teeth.

Clint spat a large blob of blood out, looking dismayed as its distance dropped short splattering on his own leg. "Sean Connery," offered Barton, bracing for the next hit. Mikhail didn't disappoint.

Mikhail smiled at the bound man's retort. "It's cute, yes?" he turned back to his table of treasures, picking up items and examining them before grabbing something else.

"да," muttered Clint, working his jaw back into place. He had no disillusion on how things were going to play out, he'd been on the receiving end of a beating a time or twelve before. SHIELD wouldn't waste their time coming for him even if they could figure out where the archer had been dragged to. He'd disobeyed orders to land himself in this mess, not exactly an endearing quality.

"Who do you work for?" As Mikhail lifted the drill up triumphantly and dressed his finger on the trigger to fill the room with the sound of impending doom, Clint still held his tongue. Face with inevitable death Barton still couldn't bring himself to betray an organization that wasn't coming for him. Born stupidly loyal, he couldn't betray that warm hand offered in a dark alley, even if it would buy him a merciful death.


	10. To Keep the Goddess on my Side, She Demands a Sacrifice

Clint wanted to curl into a little ball and try to die quietly. He was willing to settle for how far his restraints would let him fold in on himself, but the constant sound of running water grabbed Barton from his blissful blackness. It was painful to move his head, his face looking more like a map of Romania than anything human. His one eye was swollen completely shut now and the other wasn't exactly offering a great view either. He managed to lift his head enough without whimpering to see what was going on.

Natalia was methodically washing her hands, the water running red down the drain. The knife she had wandered away with earlier was discarded on the table, slightly used and for the first time, Barton felt that they were alone. He wasn't sure if that had been of Mikhail's choosing or if it was a ploy to try and lure him into a false sense of security. He decided that the bruises around her neck were a little far to take any kind of rouse.

It took a few attempts but the archer managed to croak out, "You look like you could use a friend."

She paused in washing her hands, going completely rigid at the sink before turning to face him. It was brief, but for a second she looked like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. "You should look in the mirror. I'm not the one that needs a friend right now." She grabbed the knife and began twirling it between her fingers as she had before.

"Ah, but you didn't say you didn't _need_ one." An awkward pause filled the room in the absence of her correction. Really it was more realistic that she was playing him for everything he was worth, but he was betting on that all too familiar broken look he'd seen through his scope. Clint had nothing to lose so he decided to wager on the better part of honesty and go for broke. "My handler, Coulson, he's probably really pissed at me right now, but you see, he likes to collect strays. Probably some Boy Scout training from his white picket fence childhood. You know, rescue the poor little bird with the damaged wing and nurse it back to health so it can fly again, regular Captain America bullshit. Which is good for me, cause the guy decided to do it as an adult for a more figurative bird and I'd bet he'd be willing to find a spider a good home too." The handprint on her face was even more dominant than earlier and combined with the bruises on her neck and Mekhail's absence, painted a pretty dark picture of exactly what had been happening. "At the very least, it'd probably be a smidge better than this place."

She stared at him for a long time, not saying a word and Barton tried to convey his sincerity as best as his broken body would allow him. He was starting to think his point had fallen on deaf ears when she spoke. "If it was as easy as just walking out of here, don't you think I could have handled that by now?"

"You could untie me and we could walk out of here. It could be that simple."

Natalia huffed out a small laugh. "Walking away from your life isn't simple."

"This doesn't have to be your life. You can make a different choice."

"Like you did in Turkey? Or Germany? If you were any kind of agent, you would have pulled that trigger. Now I'm supposed to listen to one of SHIELD's incompetent operatives when he says to run away. Run where and to whom? You have no idea how far a reach these people have," she lectured, her amusement from his earlier statement slipping away.

"Coulson could use someone with your skills or at the very least get you somewhere safe," promised Clint. He tactfully left out the part where he wasn't going to be particularly welcome within SHIELD anymore, but he'd make sure Natalia was safe, he would see that through and then take what was coming to him.

"If this Coulson is so good, then why didn't SHIELD send him to give this recruitment speech?"

"Because those weren't exactly my orders."

"So you failed your mission and now in some desperate attempt to prove your worth, you're going to offer me to them as a sacrificial lamb? You have a lot to learn about trying to play people Agent." She slipped her weapon into her pocket and walked away, leaving the archer to contemplate just how screwed he was.

* * *

Natasha sat rigidly on the hard wooden chair. The ramblings of the misguided boy in the basement did nothing to set her at ease. Neither did the body in the corner staring accusingly at her with his lifeless eyes. There'd be hell to pay for gutting Mikhail, though Natasha already knew that. There was no getting out alive, she was just forcing their hand early.

She'd made peace with the idea long ago but now reservation was creeping in. Worse than that, she didn't want the moron in the basement to share her fate like so many of her victims before him.

She wasn't cut out for this life after all. One word of concern from an inconsequential bug and she was doubting, doubting her plan, doubting her resolve. She couldn't let that happen. The Red Room hadn't completely broken her, she'd be damned if some degenerate would.

* * *

It was the sound of footsteps coming down the concrete stairs forced Clint to open his eyes. It wasn't the rhythmic pattern of an assault team descending to his rescue which only left one of his new friends, and really that word was fitting considering all the actual friends he had in his life, coming to torture him some more. Not something he wanted to open his eyes for but Barton never made things easy on himself; the fact that he was still alive after all these years was proof enough of that.

So far his pitiful attempts at escape had proved useless. Trying to convert his redheaded friend was like talking to a brick wall and selling out SHIELD to buy himself a little mercy was tasteless at best and a complete betrayal of who he was at worst. Perhaps it was time to bait them into finishing what they'd delightfully take days to do.

"Natalia?" he croaked, surprised to see her standing before him. Uri seemed more interested in using a heavy hand to torment the archer, instead of his young feminine charge, leaving Natalia to satisfy her intrigue of their guest when no one was around.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asked, hurried by the next set of footsteps starting to descend the stairs.

Blood loss was making his head swim. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to ask what part of his ongoing monologue she was referring to but all he could do was hold a bewildered look on his face.

"I have an escape plan in mind," she started, pulling a knife out of her coat. Her eyes darted towards the stairs as she coated the blade with a bluish grease. Placing her hand on his shoulder for leverage she pulled back the hand holding the knife. "You're not going to like it though."

"Mmmm. Don't do that," slurred the archer as the knife pierced his flesh, burying itself deep in his side. There was a moment of sharp pain, that quickly drowned in the sea of wounds he was already sporting; the next moment stole his breath. Unlike most of the stab wounds he's experienced in his life, and sadly wasn't that a long list, this one exploded in a fiery pain that washed over his skin beyond the injury burning every inch of his skin like spreading lava until lungs ceased working and everything went black.

* * *

It was quiet except for a soft hum of a machine in the background. Clint let the noise pull him along through the darkness. He wasn't tied to a chair anymore, his loose, lax muscles no longer stiff and strained by confinement. He felt like his was floating in the darkness but somehow still too heavy to pull himself to the light. It just seemed like too much effort to try and move.

Muffled giggles and clunky footsteps broke the silence. The carefree and drunken tones were enough to coax Barton from his self-imposed unawareness and he fought the heaviness to crack open an eye, the other still unwilling to cooperate around the swelling. The cartoon fish staring back at him was enough to fry his brain. Of all the things he expected to find, he just couldn't comprehend what he was looking at. Even as hallucinations, desperate cries to escape his current imprisonment went, this had no place. "I don't even like fish."

"What does that matter?"

Clint flinched, realizing both that he wasn't alone and had spoken his jumbled thoughts out loud. His head lulled towards the semi familiar voice. The fish motif continued throughout the dilapidated room, his gaze settling on the redhead sitting rigidly on a chair in front of a TV that was probably older than both of them combined.

The missing piece of his jumbled thought process snapped violently snapped into place, his hand flying to his side. Shirt gone, his uncoordinated limb found easy access to the wound his tormenting vixen had graciously imparted to him. Instead of bloody carnage, he felt smooth stitches holding his insides firmly in place. He braced himself against the pain as he tried to sit up to get a better look, falling just short of getting his head off the pillow.

"Don't," cautioned Natalia. "You have seventeen stitches in your side, wouldn't want to tear them out after all the trouble I went to putting them in."

This had to be some kind of ploy; his captors hadn't seemed all that interested in his wellbeing before, in fact they delighted in his misery. He ran his tongue around his painfully dry mouth before clamping down on a groan as he scooted himself a little higher on the bed. "If I remember correctly, you were the one putting the knife in my side to begin with."

"I figured you'd prefer me doing it over them. If they did it, we wouldn't be having this conversation now." She stared at him blankly, giving nothing away as to the sudden change in tactic.

"What? I'd be having it with them?" snapped Clint, tenderly poking at his various injuries that had all been tended to, and somewhat skillfully he might add.

An amused twinkle appeared in Natalia's eye. "Hardly."

Clint slipped his game face on. He wasn't about to face whatever she had planed lying down. Gingerly the archer pushed himself into a sitting position. He bit down on his tongue until the latest wave of pain finished crashing over him. "I had them right where I wanted them you know. You didn't have to go to such lengths to get us out of there."

Natalia leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she scrutinized him like an ant through a magnifying glass before it burst into flames. "And what was your plan?"

"First, I was going to wear down their fists with my face..."

"Well, you had that part going for you."

"Second..."

"There was no second," she countered coldly.

"You don't know that," mumbled Clint petulantly. He had the suspicious feeling this is what it felt like getting caught taking the car out for a midnight romp as a teenager.

Natalia stared at him long and hard, like she could unearth his deepest darkest secrets. "In Turkey you took off after me, even though I assume your team told you not to, and you did so without back up and any real knowledge of the area, placing you at a disadvantage. You have no part two to any of your plans."

He flashed an award winning smile. "Any yet, here we are. You followed me out."

She gave a snort of derision. "I didn't follow anything. I dragged you unconscious ass out of there on the assumption that at the very least you'd offer an amusing way to get us killed."

Barton shrugged, immediately regretting it as his stitches pulled uncomfortably. "Semantics."

The archer extended his hand. "Clint Barton."

She cautiously accepted the gesture, letting her fingers settle in his grasp. "Natasha." She tipped her head as though thinking before offering , "Romanoff."

An uneasy silence fell over the room. Neither was sure of the terms of their uneasy truce but neither dumb enough to believe they were out of the woods or able to escape the jungle on their own. After taking her up on her offer of some mild pain pills, both opted to get some sleep before moving on in the morning. As the dark of night settles over them, both lay awake in their beds, no quite trusting the soul they had tethered themselves to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beloved little dog is in need of help so I've started a go fund me campaign to try and raise funds for his surgery. If you could find it in your heart to share this campaign on your facebook and/or Twitter, I would be immensely and eternally grateful. https://www.gofundme.com/pueaju-surgery-for-toby


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